Saturday, April 23, 2016

As a kid, most mornings I'd wake up to the smell of a cigarette being lit, and most nights I'd fall asleep to a scented votive burning down to the bottom of its wick.

Our father had converted the bedroom next to ours into a den, forcing me and my sister to sleep side-by-side, inhaling the fumes of whatever was going on in there as they wafted through the grate in our shared wall and the door we weren't allowed to close as we slept.

Back then, my dad's candles always seemed a bit liturgical as they flickered in their red glass cups, illuminating the faces of saints that my father had collected on his shelves. But the scent was less frankincense and more frangipani...or vanilla...or some citrus fruit or another.

Still, for a long time, candles comforted me. I only stopped lighting them in my own apartments after having had enough of the carbon smudges on my walls and the whole idea of formaldehyde being released into the air as they burned.

But they still hold some fascination for me, which is why, I suppose, I jumped at the chance to take a tour of an artisanal candle factory.

...but since most of the artists and artisans are now getting priced out of the Downtown LA Arts District, I suppose this is exactly where you'd expect them to be.

Kristen Pumphrey founded her P.F. Candle Company in 2008, with her husband Tom Neuberger officially coming on board in 2013. And even though they've hit a certain stride with impressive retail distribution in West Elm, CB2, Urban Outfitters, YogaWorks, and Target, they're still a shockingly small operation.

These candles aren't just handmade—they're hand-crafted.

From the wax made from domestically-grown soybeans and the cotton core wicks...

It smelled good in there—that's for sure—but I didn't buy any while I was there.

Even though burning soy candles is basically carbon-neutral (unlike the paraffin candles you find at Yankee Candle or Bath and Body Works), the fragrance oils they use are natural, and both are considered vegan (with none of it being tested on animals), I thought maybe I'd leave my candle-burning days in the past.

Maybe it's better to stop covering up rather than actually neutralizing whatever it is that doesn't smell good in the first place.

As a member of the Texas Tornados, Fender is normally associated with his home, the Lone Star state; but it was the time he spent in the U.S. Marine Corps in his early years with Jack Jr.'s grandfather that earned him a place in the hearts of those in Lucerne Valley.

Even without knowing the specific history, Jack-o-Landia feels a bit...tragic.

It's lonely there, the teepees empty...

...the Indian chiefs staring vacantly out into the desert abyss.

Since Jack-o-Landia isn't, indeed, abandoned—and yet not exactly open, either—who is it for?

Maybe there are enough passers-by like myself who might be encouraged by the lack of "No Trespassing" signs enough to take a step in, pay their respects, snap a few pics, and leave it, untouched.

The only things you should ever take from a place like this is photographs—and memories.

There used to be two horses rearing, though now there's only one. I wonder what happened to the second one.

Everything at Jack-o-Landia seems to be waiting for something...or someone.

Time hasn't stopped, but the action has.

And while my path started with a cemetery (and a hearse) at the western end of this miniature ghost town...